


Until Sherlock

by Writcraft



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, First Time, John in Denial About His Sexuality, M/M, Masturbation, POV John Watson, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Top John, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-17 00:37:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3508580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A couple of drinks give Sherlock the courage to say what needs to be said, and the wheels of a new romance and a journey of mutual exploration are set in motion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt 'sometimes you need a few drinks' at the Come at Once 24 hour challenge on Livejournal. The story is set some time after after Season 2 and is not Season 3 compliant.

It’s after one in the morning when John comes to the startling realisation that his timeline is ruptured, fragmented and utterly defined by Sherlock Holmes. He grips helplessly to the steady path he always intended to follow. If he doesn’t hold on tightly enough, it might slip away entirely with another restless heartbeat and all-consuming fantasy he’s not even sure he wants. The hopes of meeting a nice girl who always dreamed of marrying a soldier veer off course with alarming speed. 

His dreams take him in an altogether different direction these days. There were times, of course, the thought of being with another man occurred to him. He spent too many years surrounded by men not to consider his alternatives. More than consider them, at times. But John never allowed those thoughts to become anything more than that – the imaginings of a war torn mind.

He stares at the ceiling and tries to pinpoint the exact moment when a turned up collar and a lithe, slender body began to make him _want_ in a way he’s quite sure he’s never wanted anything in his life before. He can’t even remember the last time he bothered looking at the pictures of busty blondes and coquettish brunettes that languish on his laptop, but he can’t delete them. It’s like a confession of sorts, and he’s not ready for that. He’s not sure he’ll ever be ready for that. 

He wonders if Sherlock knows. Sherlock knows everything and it’s bloody annoying at the best of times. John fails to meet his eyes on the morning after the night before – the nights and the desperate morning showers becoming all too frequent these days. 

Their routine is always the same. John eats his toast with a crunch and warmth spreads from his neck to his cheeks as Sherlock scrutinises him as if he’s a particularly challenging case which needs to be solved. 

“Tea?” Sherlock looks at him, eyebrow arched. 

“Please.” John pushes his mug along the table and wonders if Sherlock can see it, somehow. He wonders if he can tell from the way John holds his tea or eats his toast that he had a hurried wank in the shower with Sherlock’s name falling from his lips. He wonders if Sherlock knows what John’s thinking when he retires for the evening, and wraps his hand around his prick to release some of the aching tension which sends fire and urgent need through his body.

On those mornings John makes any kind of excuse to get away from Sherlock and his endless questions. He tells himself his fantasies don’t mean a thing. It’s only natural when spending so much time with one person – one highly annoying, bloody frustrating, brilliant person – that they might crawl under your skin. It doesn’t have to mean anything. Does it?

“I’m not gay,” he whispers to the darkness. Outside a group of drunken revelers laugh and a bottle smashes against the pavement. He wonders if they’re laughing at him – at his feeble protestations to a darkened room and four walls which close in until it’s hard to breathe.

“Shut up! Shut up before I call the police.” He wrenches open the window and yells into the night. The group on the street look up and laugh again, before moving on to another street to taunt other restless sleepers.

“I’m not gay,” he repeats. But his hand slides down his chest, his body hot with shame and frustration. His fingers trail below the elasticated waistband of his boxers and he closes his eyes.

 _Breasts_. _Arse_. Nope, not arse. That’s dangerous territory. John squeezes his eyes closed and grips his cock firmly in hand. He licks his lips and pictures a gloriously naked blonde sliding her lips around his cock. It’s _good_. He likes women, he knows he does. His cock twitches in enthusiastic response to his imaginary blowjob and John sighs with relief.

This time he won’t think about Sherlock. This time he won’t let himself fantasise about finding Sherlock’s weak spots – one stroke and pressure point at a time. This time he won’t let himself imagine pressing Sherlock back onto their too small sofa, and fucking him with reckless abandon. He won’t picture the way Sherlock’s face might look on the edge of unexpected pleasure.

Droplets of perspiration gather on his skin. He twists in the sheets, his breathing hard and ragged. He slides his hand over his cock with rough, almost angry strokes. He hears violins, and laughter. Sherlock stares at him with dark eyes and a small smile plays over his lips. John kisses away the smile with a heated _fuck off_. This is John’s fantasy and he doesn’t want Sherlock there. It’s so typical of him to barge in when John’s trying to have a nice heterosexual wank, insinuating himself into John’s moments of private pleasure.

John groans, muttering _fuck off_ again - out loud this time, just for good measure. It doesn’t help. Instead, Sherlock responds to John’s angry kisses with a kiss of his own. It’s surprisingly tender and John slows his hand. Apparently Sherlock wants him to take his time. The mystery blonde leaves John’s thoughts entirely, her face replaced with an eagerly bobbing dark head and slim fingers digging into John’s flesh. Sherlock on his knees. Now _there’s_ an image.

John’s hand quickens and he brings himself to the edge. It’s different, but it’s good. Two bodies coming together on a cramped bed. Sherlock’s cock hard and heavy against John’s thigh. A small mewl of pleasure and a look of surprise flickering over Sherlock’s face. They collide together and months of wanting push John to a powerful climax.

For the fifth time that week, John manages not to say Sherlock’s name when he comes. He swallows and tries not to think too carefully about the fact that when he came in his hand his imaginary self was buried deep inside Sherlock.

“I want him,” he confesses into the darkness. There’s a rustle outside the door and John turns in the bed. “Sherlock?”

His tone teeters somewhere between shame and hope.

The rustling stops, and John is left with the silence of the night and his own unstoppable thoughts.

*

It’s rare that Sherlock gets pissed. When he does, he talks ten to the dozen and stumbles through the streets with a holler of appreciation for the stars of all things. He really doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks of him. He’s almost childlike when he’s tipsy – joyful and unabashed. His limbs move with the kind of freedom John only witnesses when Sherlock’s on the cusp of solving a case or playing his violin.

It leaves John’s mouth dry as he takes in the topsy-turvy movements as Sherlock winds along cobbled pavement, lost in his own world. Sherlock lets out a delighted whoop and turns in a circle with his arms outstretched. John laughs, and pushes to one side the way his heart clenches in his chest at the sight of Sherlock’s innocence. “We should get you home.”

“I’m having fun,” Sherlock responds. He grabs John’s hand and they run until John’s chest hurts. He doesn’t know what he’s doing running through the streets with Sherlock Holmes – particularly as they don’t have anything to run from anymore.

Sherlock faces John and his smile is caught in the moonlight. Maybe that’s not true. Maybe they have everything to run from. John lets his gaze linger on Sherlock’s face. His cheekbones raise with his wide smile, and he gathers his coat around his body. “I think it might rain.”

“And if you say so, it’s bound to happen.” John looks up at the sky which is tumultuous and dark with heavy clouds. Sure enough, a plump raindrop lands on his cheek. He brushes it away with the back of his hand and looks back at Sherlock. 

The expression on Sherlock’s face makes John’s heart quicken. Suddenly breathless, he shifts in place. “We’re miles from Baker Street. You and your running. We’re going to have to get a cab.”

“I expect so.” Sherlock’s tongue flicks over his lips. He’s too drunk to know what he’s doing, John reminds himself. “I know the way. Let’s start walking.”

“You always know the way.” John follows Sherlock, regardless. He always does that these days. He allows himself to be dragged here and there without questioning where they might end up. He wishes taking unexpected steps was always this easy. It feels a lot easier when there’s a possibility of death involved. John knows where he is with death – or at least he thought he did, until Sherlock.

“I heard you last night.” Sherlock stops, and the heavens open. He turns to John with a strange look on his face.

“Heard me?” John tries to keep his voice even, his cheeks heating even as the droplets of rain cool his warm skin. 

“Shouting out of the window,” Sherlock clarifies. 

John’s heart rate steadies back to a normal pace. “I couldn’t sleep and some kids were making a racket. They were nearly as pissed as you.”

“I’m not _pissed_.” Sherlock huffs and stumbles right on cue. “Perhaps.”

“Pissed enough to stand in the middle of the pouring rain without flinching.” 

“I like the rain.” Sherlock moves closer and runs his thumb over John’s cheek. “John…”

“Don’t.” John swallows, and he tries to fight the shudder of pleasure which travels through his body at Sherlock’s proximity. He’s soaking wet. They both are. He’s too close, and John isn’t ready. He isn’t ready for any of this to become real. “You’ve had too much to-”

“Sometimes you need a few drinks,” Sherlock cuts him off. “Besides, we might die tonight. Stranger things have happened.”

“There’s a cheerful thought,” John mutters.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Sherlock continues, persistently. “Something you need to know.”

John can’t take this. He can’t take any of this. “I’d rather not hear it, if it’s all the same to you.”

John tells himself he kisses Sherlock to stop him from saying anything that can’t be taken back. Truthfully, he kisses Sherlock because he thinks his heart might beat out of his chest if he doesn’t. 

And that’s how it happens. Another notch on the timeline and another plan veering completely off course. A whisky-soaked kiss under an unexpected springtime rain cloud. Wet lips meeting together with an affection and insistence which takes John’s breath away. A hardness against his stomach and his own cock responding with eager readiness.

A kiss. A heartbeat of staring in uncertain silence. It’s nothing and everything all at the same time.

They run again all the way home, and sleep in separate bedrooms. 

John brings himself to a lonely completion with the memory of Sherlock’s kiss still warm against his lips.

*

Sherlock is irritable at breakfast. He clatters around the room and lets out a huff of aggravation when his tea spills onto his hand. His usual togetherness is absent and the mood unsettles John.

“Hungover?”

“A little.” Sherlock sits and opens the paper, the gesture dismissive. “I’ve had worse.”

“Do you think we should talk?” John can’t bring himself to articulate what they should talk about, and Sherlock responds with a snort.

“You’re planning to leave, I expect.”

“I wasn’t.” John hesitates, a chill settling over his body. “Unless that’s what you want.”

“I’m asking what _you_ want.” Sherlock looks up, his expression unreadable and his eyes dark.

“I thought you knew everything.” John settles back, feeling oddly combative. “I imagine you can work it out.”

“Very well.” Sherlock folds his paper and settles his hands on the table, leaning forwards. “You are far more vocal about being heterosexual than any straight man I know. You have a history – of some sort – with that Major of yours which you refuse to acknowledge or accept. You suffer from insomnia and tell yourself it’s because of the war, when we both know it’s far more than that. You are lonely and think it’s only a matter of time before a nice, safe prospect comes into your life and offers you a happily ever after. But when it does come along you’ll be miserable. You don’t enjoy _safe_. You never have.” Sherlock takes a sip of his tea and looks steadily at John. “You’re restless and you’re keeping something from me.” Sherlock’s lips tighten into a thin line, his gaze intense. “You are my _friend_. I have no desire to make you uncomfortable. If I have done so, I would like you to tell me immediately. Last night was…an error. I can assure you, there is no need to insist upon your lack of interest any further.”

John’s cheeks heat and he clenches his hands into fists. “You’re bloody frustrating, do you know that? Brilliant, but frustrating.” He sighs and focuses on his tea, wishing it was whisky. “There’s no need to worry about me protesting about anything.” He looks up. “It’s gone far beyond the point where I even believe myself anymore.”

Sherlock startles. His expression flickers and he raises his eyebrows at John. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“You, who understands everything.” John rolls his eyes heavenward and tries to formulate his words. “I wouldn’t mind seeing how things go. If you have any interest.”

“Do you think our situation requires any further complication?” Sherlock’s expression pales and his slim fingers press more tightly around his mug.

John laughs. The laughter fills the room and it’s not long before Sherlock laughs too, his face breaking into an easy smile. It’s all so ridiculous, John almost can’t breathe for laughing. They laugh until tears run down their cheeks and John throws a Satsuma at Sherlock, which he catches with a deft hand.

“We’re throwing oranges at one another now?” Sherlock is amused and his eyes shine with humour.

“Apparently so.” John rubs his eyes with his hand, his mood considerably lifted. “It’s a complex situation, after all.”

“It is.” Sherlock looks away. “Horribly complicated.”

John swallows and he tries to read Sherlock’s expression. Sherlock’s eyebrows knit together in a frown, and John resists the urge to reach over to touch him. “Here I am spending my nights thinking about you in ways I never expected to think about another man and in the meantime you’re…”

“Yes?” Sherlock responds with a slow, curious smile.

“Unreadable. Completely unreadable.” John shakes his head. “Have you ever had sex? Do you even _like_ sex?”

“It would be difficult to say.” Sherlock appears uncharacteristically flummoxed, and he clears his throat. “I imagine I might enjoy it. Under the right circumstances.”

“You imagine?” John’s breathing slows and his heart thuds so loudly he wonders if Sherlock might be able to hear it. “Have you ever wanted to do more than imagine?”

Sherlock’s gaze flicks over John, and he nods. His fringe falls into his eyes and he sweeps it back impatiently. “Lately, perhaps.”

“Well then.” John butters his toast and adds a generous spoonful of marmalade. “That’s settled.”

“It is?” Sherlock eyes John. 

“Yes.” John winks and takes a bit of his toast. “It is.”

*

When a dead body floats to the surface of the Thames it becomes increasingly difficult for John to put his plan into action. They carry on much as they always have, rushing here and there while Sherlock’s mind is otherwise occupied. They continue to sleep in separate rooms and the only hint of any shift in their relationship comes with fleeting touches.

A simple _pass the paper_ now comes with a spark of pleasure, as their fingers slide together for a blissful moment. When they occupy the same space they take less care over brushing against one another in the small living room or kitchen. When John writes about their latest success, Sherlock leans over his shoulder to check the fine print – or so he says – his warm breath tickling John’s neck pleasantly.

In the end it takes another glass of whisky to spur them into action.

Sherlock greets John as he arrives home from a long walk, his breath carrying the faint smell of alcohol. He seems impatient and tightly wound, and blocks John’s path into the living room. “I'm not entirely satisfied with this arrangement of ours.”

John raises his eyebrows at Sherlock when he finds himself pinned rather effectively against the wall. “We’ve been busy.”

“Does that mean your position has changed?” Sherlock looks John up and down. “I may not have much experience with this, but I assumed you might have certain desires.”

John’s body reminds him that – once again – Sherlock is spot on. “And I thought you might want to take your time.”

“At this rate we’ll both be dead.” Sherlock presses against John. “It’s awfully distracting. I don’t appreciate being distracted – I have to maintain a clear mind at all times. It took me nearly two weeks to solve our last case.”

John stares at Sherlock and laughs. “Two weeks is nothing.”

“It felt like a lifetime.” Sherlock rocks forwards and John wonders if they’re still talking about the case.

Sherlock’s proximity is overwhelmingly good. John presses close and slides his hands over Sherlock’s chest. “Perhaps I should do something to help you feel less…distracted.”

“Perhaps.” Sherlock’s expression catches between surprise and hesitancy. He arches into John’s touch and his eyes flutter closed as he catches his bottom lip between his teeth. “And quickly, if you don’t mind.”

John bites back a groan of pleasure. Sherlock looks incredible even when he’s fully clothed. His tight expression loosens into one of aching vulnerability. His body responds to every stroke of John’s fingers, and John hardens further as Sherlock rocks against him. “How do you want to do this?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Sherlock notes. His eyes glint in the dim light of the room and his breath is hot on John’s cheek. “Maybe you can show me what you do when you’re thinking about me in ways you never expected to think about another man…”

John’s body flushes with heat and he groans properly this time, nodding. “It seems a good place to start.” He tugs Sherlock into his bedroom and tugs off his jumper, watching Sherlock. “Are you just going to watch?”

“Perhaps. I haven’t decided yet.” Sherlock unbuttons his shirt with slim fingers and pulls it off his shoulders. He unbuckles his belt and strips out of his clothes, until they’re both naked on John’s bed.

“Do you ever do this?” John slides his hand over his cock and turns so he can look at Sherlock properly. “Masturbate?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s lips twitch into a smile. “Rather a lot, lately.”

The thought that they could have been in their rooms and coming to a heady climax at the same time makes John’s cock twitch. He reaches for Sherlock and takes his hand. “Will you?”

“I can try.” Sherlock moves his hand over John’s, his expression curious. He lets John slide his hand back and forth for a moment, before batting John’s hand away. “Let me. Do you have lubricant?”

“Top left drawer.” John watches Sherlock twist to the drawer and takes a moment to drink in the sight of him. His back flexes as he stretches forward. His skin is pale and smooth, and his backside curves pleasingly and clenches a little as he arches forwards again. John stretches out and trails his hand along the line of Sherlock’s spine. Instead of turning, Sherlock tenses briefly and then sighs. 

“God, that feels good.”

“This?” Surprised, John shifts closer and runs his fingers slowly towards the base of Sherlock’s spine.

“ _Yes_.” Sherlock responds with a light gasp of pleasure and he presses against John’s fingers. “Don’t stop.”

John reaches around Sherlock and plucks the lubricant from his hand. He slicks his fingers and slides them over Sherlock again, focusing on the base of his spine and moving cautiously between the cheeks of Sherlock’s backside. He notes how a shudder of pleasure passes through Sherlock’s body as John moves his fingers back and forth, applying a gentle pressure against Sherlock’s entrance.

John shifts closer to Sherlock after slicking his cock with a quick slight of hand. He spoons against Sherlock, curved around him and rocking into the crease of his backside. His breathing falls in ragged pants as his cock slides back and forth in the tight, warm space between Sherlock’s arse cheeks. Sherlock’s own breathing is unsteady, and his body shivers in John’s arms. 

When John moves to wrap a slick hand around Sherlock’s cock, he’s rewarded with a low cry of pleasure. Sherlock presses back against John and moves with careless abandon, his body loosening under John’s touch. John presses his lips to Sherlock’s neck, tasting the salty perspiration on his skin. He flicks his tongue along the line of Sherlock’s neck from his ear to his collarbone, and familiarises himself with the feeling of Sherlock’s cock against his palm. He’s thick, long and heavy and it’s completely fucking glorious. John wonders if he’s going to lose his mind when Sherlock thrusts into his fist and clenches his backside around John’s cock.

When Sherlock comes, John comes shortly after – coating Sherlock’s pale skin. He disentangles himself slowly, his fingers trailing through the mess he’s made of Sherlock’s body. 

“Was it good enough?”

“Yes, it was good enough.” Sherlock shifts and turns to face John with a wince. His hair stands on end and his cheeks bloom with a pleasing flush. He stretches out and slides his hand into John’s hair. Even after coming in John’s hand, a lazy kiss seems to be a step too far for Sherlock. Instead, John closes the distance between them.

The kiss is slower than the last time, and they explore one another with tentative softness. It’s sweeter than John anticipated and it does funny things to his heart which he decides not to think about too closely. Their bodies are damp and sticky with come and sweat and slide against one another. Sherlock’s hands trace every inch of John’s back and hover fleetingly over his arse, squeezing briefly.

“At this rate I’ll be ready for another go,” John murmurs.

Sherlock nods, his voice a satiated purr. “At this rate, so will I.”

*

They settle in bed together again after a shower and a hurried bite of dinner. John discovers it’s hard to eat half naked, when on the receiving end of lingering looks which manage to be sexually charged and inquisitive all at once.

“I want to try everything.” John smiles against Sherlock’s skin and breathes in the scent of him. “It’s just a matter of deciding what to try first.”

“You’re the expert.” Sherlock’s slender fingers trace lazy patterns over John’s chest. “You could educate me for a change.”

“I’m not exactly an expert myself.”

“No?” Sherlock arches an eyebrow. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you? You should have developed a decent grasp of anatomy.”

“I don’t think I’m feeling overly clinical at the moment.” John kisses Sherlock’s chest, just above his heart. He rubs his thumb over Sherlock’s nipple and observes the hitch in his breathing and the light twist back into the sheets. Maybe his grasp of anatomy will serve him well after all. He rolls Sherlock’s nipple between his thumb and his forefinger, applying a similar pressure to the other with a light pinch.

He moves his lips down Sherlock’s torso and continues to twist and slide his fingers over Sherlock’s chest. He rests above Sherlock’s cock, pleased to find it full and heavy with arousal. With a rough groan, he nuzzles the wiry hair between Sherlock’s legs. He runs his tongue over the tip of Sherlock’s cock and gathers the small amount of salty liquid leaking from the tip of his cock. His actions are rewarded with a grunt of pleasure from Sherlock, and Sherlock’s fingers twine into John’s hair.

“Pass me the lube.” John raises his head momentarily and holds out a hand. Sherlock gives him the kind of dark stare which should be illegal, before slipping the bottle into John’s hand.

“Here. Put it on the top.” John slicks his fingers in a hurry and hands the bottle back before it slides from his hands. He presses his fingers behind Sherlock’s balls and rubs against the spot which gave him so much pleasure before. The touch elicits a groan of pleasure and John runs his tongue over Sherlock’s cock. He traces the lines of his prick with precision, until Sherlock presses back against John’s hand and clutches the sheets, his face hot with pleasure. John decides its time, and takes Sherlock properly into his mouth at the same time as he slides a finger deep inside Sherlock’s body.

The motion is met with a shout of pleasure which is both pleasing and unexpected. Of all things John had imagined Sherlock might be, vocal was not one of them. The sensation of Sherlock’s prick pushing against his throat is more arousing than John bargained for. He’s pleased that this activity at least is one he seems to enjoy. With a deft hand, John slides his finger out of Sherlock and pushes back in once more when he’s met with a disgruntled whine. Sherlock likes this, John realises. He likes it _a lot_.

The thought spurring him on, John crooks his finger and slides it back towards himself. The touch elicits another groan of pleasure. Sherlock’s fingers tighten in John’s hair, and he begins to thrust into John’s mouth. The movements become increasingly more frantic and when John adds a second finger, Sherlock spills himself inside John’s mouth. The taste is salty, mild and inoffensive. Better than inoffensive, John thinks as he licks his lips. The sensation of Sherlock losing control is better than any sex he’s ever had. He slides his fingers slowly from Sherlock’s body and sits up. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and moves up Sherlock’s body to kiss him. There’s a look of surprise on Sherlock’s face and John dimly wonders if it’s bad form to kiss after sucking someone’s cock. The kiss is met with enthusiasm, and John stops worrying.

“I believe such activities are usually reciprocated.” Sherlock breaks the kiss first, and shifts beneath John.

“Only if you want to.” John’s cock twitches with appreciation at the thought and he tries not to sound too eager.

“I have something I want to try first.” Sherlock’s voice is low and silky. “While we’re experimenting.”

“Anything.” John narrows his eyes when Sherlock looks worryingly smug. “Within reason.”

“Can you turn over? Maybe raise yourself up?” Sherlock gives John’s leg a light swat. 

With a little trepidation, John rolls onto his stomach and shifts onto his arms and knees. Sherlock moves behind him and traces a line down John’s back with his fingers.

When Sherlock parts the cheeks of John’s backside and he presses his tongue against John’s entrance, the surprise and intensity of his arousal makes John shout loud enough to worry Mrs Hudson might hear. “Sherlock…what the hell are you doing?”

“I’ve been doing some reading since our last discussion.” Sherlock runs his tongue over John’s entrance again in a firm, swift motion. His voice is a little muffled and he pulls back briefly. “I believe this is called rimming.”

“I know what it’s called you…”

John is effectively cut off by another swipe of Sherlock’s tongue. There’s something so unexpectedly filthy about his predicament, John quickly loses all capacity for speech. Sherlock continues to tongue at him with determined precision and when he eventually slides a slick hand over John’s cock, John wonders if he might just come on the spot. Sherlock finally stop his maddening kissing and licking, and slips a tentative finger into John’s body as if to test his reaction.

John shudders. The thought that Sherlock’s long, agile fingers might cause him such uncontrollable pleasure is not a new one but the experience of it makes him come undone. His climax overtakes him, and his body shudders into a hard orgasm. He collapses onto the bed and tries to catch his breath, before rolling over and giving Sherlock a slow grin.

“There are benefits to doing research after all.”

Sherlock’s pale cheeks flush a light pink. “I have been keen to understand exactly what you want from me.”

John frowns at that, and he runs his thumb over Sherlock’s cheek to feel the heat beneath his skin. “I don’t expect you to do anything you don’t enjoy. I’m not going to like everything in the books and neither are you. It’s something people tend to find out together.”

Sherlock rolls onto his back, his voice a low hum. “It was unsatisfactory?”

“No, not at all.” John closes the distance between them and brushes his lips to Sherlock’s neck. “For you?”

There’s a pause, a breathless silence and then Sherlock’s lips quirk into a smile. “Good. Everything was good. I expect I will want to do that again.”

Relief floods through John’s body, and he laughs. “No objections from me.”

“Well, then.” Sherlock doesn’t move, blinking steadily into the darkness. “I should return to my own room.”

“No.” John slings an arm over Sherlock and presses against him with a yawn. “I’d really rather you didn’t.”

When John wakes in the morning, he’s pleased to find Sherlock snoring softly beside him.

*

They settle into a familiar routine with ease, and the weeks stretch into months. In the bedroom Sherlock is always eager to please and expresses little concern about his own pleasure. It’s a pattern John becomes familiar with, and he takes pains to ensure Sherlock’s pleasure comes before his own. He strokes Sherlock to slow completion and learns how to take the full length of him into his mouth and the back of his throat. It’s sublime, having sex with Sherlock. Better than anything John expected.

“There’s a ‘but’.” Sherlock’s voice interrupts John’s thoughts. “There’s always a ‘but’.” 

“Excuse me?” John fights the heat rising in his cheeks wondering if Sherlock can actually read minds now. 

Sherlock waves an official looking letter in John’s direction. “Mycroft wants to employ our services on a new matter.”

“You don’t want to do it?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “I don’t believe it is ever as simple as just doing somebody a favour. Not when Mycroft is involved.”

John rolls his eyes and scans the letter quickly. “It seems fairly straightforward to me.”

“Of course it does.” Sherlock folds the letter and places it in the desk with a derisory snort. “I think I’ll let him wonder for a couple of days.”

John shrugs. “It’s your decision. I’m going to shower.”

“Fine.” Sherlock doesn’t look up from his mail, sifting through the letters with a frown. “Don’t be too long, we have somewhere to be this morning.”

“We do?” John resists the urge to glare at Sherlock.

“Yes.” Sherlock barely nods, and waves John away. “We do.”

*

Their mission turns out to be a wild goose chase halfway across London, ending up in a Saville Row tailors to collect Sherlock’s new suit. They take a taxi back to Baker Street and John casts a glance at Sherlock.

“Are you happy?”

“Happy?” Sherlock’s brow furrows as if the concept is an unfamiliar one. “Not particularly. I am never happy after a day like today.”

John grits his teeth and counts to ten. “Not just today. With me. With all of it.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen and he turns to John. “Does it seem as though I’m unhappy? We have mutually satisfying nights together, do we not?”

The taxi driver snorts and John flicks off the speaker, giving the driver a glare. “We do, but…”

Sherlock’s jaw clenches and John can almost hear his mind whirring. “There is _always_ a ‘but’.”

John shakes his head and looks at his hands. “Sometimes I wonder if you do the things we do together just because they please me. I wouldn’t mind mixing things up a little. Trying something different. Maybe even something _you_ want.”

Sherlock stares at John without blinking. After an uncomfortable pause, he flicks on the speaker again. “Change of plan. We’re going to the Plough and Harrow in Marylebone.”

“No problem, sir.” The driver nods and gives John a knowing look which makes his cheeks heat. “You’re that detective, aren’t you?”

Sherlock looks innocent. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

He flicks the speaker off again to indicate the conversation is over, and they spend the rest of the journey in silence.

*

Sherlock orders drinks for them both, without asking John what he wants. They sip their wine in uncomfortable silence, before John decides to break it – his frustration mounting.

“Why are we here?”

“Because sometimes you need a few drinks.” Sherlock tops up his wine. “Or more accurately, I do.”

John is reminded of their first kiss and the way Sherlock stumbled over the words John wouldn’t let him get out. He nods and raises his glass.

“Well, then. Cheers.”

“I’m not used to this. I am unaccustomed to initiating anything relating to sexual intimacy.” Sherlock breathes as if he needs to steady himself. “I can attempt to be better at that.”

“I don’t need you to try to do things that make you uncomfortable.” John leans forward and lowers his voice so the table next to them can’t hear their discussion. “Don’t you ever want to initiate it?”

Sherlock’s eyes bore into his own, his expression intense. “Yes. Frequently.”

John’s body heats. “Good. Then why don’t you?”

“Perhaps, because I don’t know how.” Sherlock looks away and he finishes his glass of wine with a deep gulp. “Why have you waited so long to bring this up?”

“Because this is new to me too.” John takes a gulp of his own wine and puts it down on the table, his hands shaking as he asks the question that's been on the tip of his tongue for weeks. “Will you let me fuck you one of these nights?”

Sherlock pulls on his coat and stands, tugging his scarf around his neck.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

*

Their final taxi journey of the day is uncomfortable for all of the right reasons.

Sherlock’s arm brushes against John’s, the light touch sending pleasure through John’s body. Sherlock's now familiar scent lingers in the air around them, and John shifts in place. 

“Is there a quicker route?” Sherlock’s voice is tight and clipped and he leans forward, tapping on the window between them and the driver.

“Roads are closed all over London. Some kind of protest in Westminster.” The taxi driver narrows his eyes. “I hope you’ve got enough money. I ain’t getting fined again waiting for you to get cash out.”

“I’ve got money.” Sherlock sits back with a _harrumph_ of annoyance. His fingers trace John’s knee and slide higher, until John has to catch his hand.

“Stop. I’m not doing this here.”

Sherlock’s lips flicker into a small smile and he looks straight ahead, giving John’s leg a most distracting squeeze. “I’m being spontaneous.”

“Bloody hell.” John drops his head back and lets Sherlock continue to slide his fingers over his leg in a maddening fashion. 

Finally the taxi slows to a halt outside 221B Baker Street. Sherlock throws a couple of tenners onto the tray, and opens the door with a wrench.

They’re on each other as soon as the key turns in the lock. Sherlock kicks the front door closed with a slam, and presses John hard against the wall kissing him fiercely. His cock swells against John, and John responds with a low groan. He deepens the kiss and trails his hands to Sherlock’s belt.

“We should go upstairs.”

“Mrs Hudson would be thrilled to find us in a compromising position.” Sherlock smiles against John’s lips and pulls back after giving his neck a gentle nip. “After you.”

John takes the stairs two at a time, and Sherlock’s arms wrap around him before he can turn around. “Your room or mine?”

“Mine.” John’s voice is breathless with arousal, and he shivers at the low cadence to Sherlock’s tone. It’s sinfully good and Sherlock’s palm against the front of his trousers doesn’t exactly help matters.

He tries to get back a little control and tugs Sherlock into his room, kicking off his shoes as he goes. He pulls off his socks and tugs off his jumper, nodding as Sherlock. “Strip. I can’t wait.”

A shiver of pleasure passes through Sherlock’s body and his pupils dilate at John’s words. He pulls off his clothes and drops them in an uncharacteristically haphazard manner on the floor, before dropping onto the bed.

His limbs are long and lean, and his pale skin is almost translucent in the moonlight. He looks good enough to eat, and John advances onto the bed to capture his lips in another heated kiss.

“You’re sure it’s okay?” John hesitates as he reaches for the lube. Some of this is familiar territory, but the rest…

Sherlock responds with a groan. “Stop being so polite and get on with it.”

John takes that as a very definite _yes_ , and he slicks his fingers to slide them into Sherlock. His body his hot and tight, and he responds to John with a low, eager moan. His back arches and if John didn’t know better he’d wonder if Sherlock’s toes actually curled at the rough touch. He tries to slow down his movements and kisses a line along Sherlock’s jaw and down his neck. He pumps his fingers steadily inside Sherlock and thanks his lucky stars he knows just where to focus to leave Sherlock unraveling beneath him.

Sex with Sherlock isn’t like sex with anyone else and that has little to do with the anatomical differences. Watching Sherlock’s mind falter at the height of his pleasure leaves John breathless. Making him lose himself to desire - even for a fleeting moment - makes John feel more powerful and more trusted than ever. It relaxes Sherlock too, he’s sure of it. There are moments after when Sherlock is all loose-limbed and tactile – when his body curves close to John and words of wonderment fall from his lips. It’s a Sherlock that John knows with absolute certainty no one else has ever seen. It is his greatest privilege to be there for those moments, and it warms his body to the tips of his toes. Perhaps there wasn’t really sex at all, until Sherlock. It was all just muddling through life and waiting for this brave, brilliant, capable man to fall apart in his hands. 

“You’re miles away.” Sherlock cups John’s face in his hands and meets his eyes, his face flushed with arousal. “I know you are. Where are you?”

“Thinking about my life before we met.” John slips his fingers out of Sherlock and he brushes their lips together. “Wondering how I’ve made it this long without you.”

“There’s something…” Sherlock’s voice catches in his throat. He closes his eyes with a flutter and he breathes out through barely parted lips. “There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for a very long time.”

John presses against Sherlock’s entrance. He pushes Sherlock’s legs back and kisses him in a slightly uncomfortable position. “Do you think I don’t already know?”

Sherlock hums, and he shakes his head. “I expect you do. I’d like to tell you one day, nevertheless.”

“Now?” John’s body is taut with need and he thinks he might explode if he can’t connect with Sherlock right away. “Do you want to tell me now?”

“Not if you already know.” Sherlock’s voice is low, and rough and his lips tug into a smile. “It spoils the surprise.”

With a laugh, John pushes into Sherlock in one deep thrust. The motion causes his laugh to catch in his throat. Sherlock cries out sharply, and they both still for one heady moment.

John sits back and begins to press into Sherlock, keeping his movements deep and slow. Sherlock’s eyes clench shut and he bites his bottom lip looking achingly vulnerable. A low moan falls from his lips when John’s movements quicken, until his eyes snap open and he meets John’s gaze.

“Okay?”

Sherlock doesn’t seem capable of speech, and his only response is to nod vigorously and breathe out. He slides his hand over his stomach and wraps his slim fingers around his cock. The sight of Sherlock tossing himself off while John’s cock pushes inside his body is too much. John increases his pace with the swift motion of Sherlock’s hand. The hot, tight heat surrounding his cock and the dark look in Sherlock’s eyes combine to make the experience almost painfully good.

When John comes, Sherlock follows shortly after. His body clenches around John’s cock and pulls the last of his orgasm from him. 

John slides down onto the bed, boneless and sated. He turns his head to the side, to find Sherlock looking at him with a peculiar expression.

“What?” It’s about all he can manage, his heart still racing and his body limp and exhausted.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a very long time.” Sherlock’s voice is almost a whisper, and his hand brushes John’s hair. “You are the best man I know. You have become – in a very short space of time – everything to me. I will not say it often, or as frequently as I should, but you are my very best friend. I would trust you with my life.” Sherlock’s hand stills and he studies John carefully. “I trust you with my heart.”

John swallows and he nods, unable to respond to Sherlock’s words. His heart beats wildly in his chest and his words catch in his throat when he attempts to speak. “I love-”

Sherlock cuts him off with a nod. “I know. I’ve known for a long time. I was just waiting for you to realise.”

John takes in the sight of Sherlock, lounging languidly on the crisp sheets and he leans forward to place his ear over Sherlock’s heart. He listens to the quick beat and runs his fingers over the sticky come on Sherlock’s stomach. “You could have told me.”

Sherlock speaks with a smile in his tone. “You wouldn’t have believed me if I had. You were very insistent for a time when others suggested it.”

John closes his eyes and his senses fill with the memories of the last few years. The surprise, the laughter, the grieving and the yearning. Every brilliant, terrible, _beautiful_ moment begins and ends with Sherlock Holmes.

Sleepy and relaxed, John mumbles almost to himself as Sherlock strokes lazy fingers through John’s hair. “I didn’t imagine for one moment it could be like this. Until you.”

Whatever Sherlock says in response is caught in that place between sleep and waking. 

When he wakes hours later in the darkness of his room John is no longer alone. 

For the first time, Sherlock kisses him and John doesn’t hesitate to kiss back.

_~Fin~_

**Author's Note:**

> I am trying to build up my Tumblr with a view to writing more Sherlock fic. If you would like to follow me please do and I'll follow you back
> 
> Link: [Writcraft on Tumblr](http://writcraft.tumblr.com/)


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